I went out on Friday night with friends from my old band. Sara introduced me to a cellist, who had joined the orchestra since I had left. She figured we would hit it off and vouched for his performance. She wasn’t wrong.

On my knees, on his bed, I sucked his cock. His balls were a bit too sensitive for me to mouth and handle, so I concentrated my efforts on the stem and the glans. He enjoyed a wet blowjob. He was also particularly turned on by the visual: he held my hair out of the way so that he could watch me work his penis with my lips and tongue. I gave him plenty of eye contact.

When it was time to reciprocate, he ate my cunt from behind. I thrust my ass up into the air, and he lowered his head into the space between my thighs and licked the perineum and the lips of the pussy. He surprised me by pulling out a dildo from the drawer in the nightstand. As he lapped my cunt, he penetrated me with the false cock. It had a suction cup bottom that we attached to a dinner plate that we set over the mattress. I lowered myself onto the ersatz erection and bounced myself over it. He nursed at my breasts and fingered my clitoris.

We fucked twice last night, and each time, I came with his cock inside me. The first time, I was on top, straddling his hard-on, just as I had the dildo. The pliancy of flesh makes a penis the best sex toy ever. His hands smoothed over my back, and he held me by the hips. After the initial orgasm, I let the control of the tempo shift from me to him. His cock made a sequence of long, smooth strokes, then suddenly he would stab it all the way in and hold position when it bottomed out. The deep penetration made me moan. I compressed my muscles about the shaft. He specialized in sticky, sloppy kisses.

The second time, I had my legs in the air, knees touching, the insides of thighs flush. He stood on the floor, straddling the corner of the mattress. His cock thrust into me in long, even strokes in 4/4 time. His thighs slapped against my skin. My breasts rippled under the force of the entry. The seismic jolt, when his cock shuddered to a halt and the momentum carried the balls forward against the sensitive patch of skin below the pussy, rendered the nerves insensate. They overloaded with pleasure. I shrieked. One of my arms wrapped my legs above the knees to make the fit even tighter.

I moved to the center of the bed, and he joined me on the mattress. His hands on my knees winged my thighs apart. He rested on his shins and lowered his erection into my cunt. His pelvis did a twist, and while dug down deep inside me, the cock spun at the cunt, which flowered tightly about the root. He remained on his knees, and I arched myself. My hands, on either side of my shoulders, together with my feet pushed my weight up from the bed. The blood rushed to my upside down head. His grip supported my buttocks. The powerful arms held me upright while I flailed and came.

He sweated so much; his skin was saturated in perspiration. The cock pounded my pussy in short strokes, and I diddled my clit at the top. His paw covered one of my breasts. His breath shortened, and his movements became erratic. Words had abandoned him. He said something, but his speech was unintelligible. After orgasm, we kissed softly.

I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and he was fast asleep by the time I returned. I liked him enough that I pulled up the corner of the duvet and slipped into the bed beside him. He was a snorer and hogged most of the sheets. We had a quickie in the morning to finish.

The first kisses were chaste — the roommate on both cheeks in the French style, her husband in the same manner. In the first minute of January first, I swapped spit with an anonymous stranger by the Thames and then with several others.

Saying goodbye to my friends, I wandered the crowded streets of the city. Under a vault leading to cobbled mews, I bartered a quaff of champagne from a soldier for a snog. He kissed fabulously. His leg threaded between mine. Back bent into an arch, I kicked off one foot. His arm supported my waist, and his tongue made itself a home inside my mouth. As I straightened, he took a generous feel of my ass. Standing on the tips of my toes, I kissed him again.

Probably, I should have stuck with him for the night. Masterful kisses supply a superlative recommendation for cunnilingus at least.

Instead, I slipped into a cocktail lounge at a hotel and one hour later took an elevator up to the fourteenth floor in the company of a Canadian man. The first fuck of 2012 was a drunken shag of absolutely no consequence or merit. So, too, was the second. I beat a retreat in the morning before he woke.

There is better sex yet to come. Amadeo has claimed me for Wednesdays as usual. I will see Frank on the weekend. I have been in touch with Marshall also.

I am in the UK again from December 31st to January 17th. I will be crashing with my former roommate and her husband. They are renting a one bedroom flat near Hampstead Heath. I get the plush new sofa in the living room. I expect I won’t be at their place every night. After all, I have friends to see and be done by.

Amadeo has proven to be a generally poor correspondent. We Skype now and again. Frank writes a long e-mail every couple of weeks. These arrive unexpectedly. The letters are warm and funny and inevitably make me wish I had considered doing an undergraduate degree at Oxford or Cambridge. His missives and my replies are interspersed with frequent text messages. The salacious SMS exchanges happen when one of us endures an incomprehensible seminar. I like to think of Frank growing hard in his seat in public and hiding the erection in his pants with A4 paper. In the back of the auditorium, I squirm in my chair from arousal. My panties become moist. I miss these men.

For the past six weeks in Boston, I have been seeing someone. In his early thirties, David is a newly minted assistant professor. I like him very much so far. We are still in the process of discovering each other, sexually and otherwise. I have no expectations for how long the relationship will last. We aren’t exclusive. My colorful sexual life isn’t a secret to him either. He has seen the marks that other men have left on my body. He disapproves only on aesthetic grounds. He is especially proficient at applying pain without leaving bruises. David and I met through OkCupid. Like my own profile, his indicates an interest in casual sex. Naturally, in the bedroom, he gets off on his dominance and my submission. He is adept with rope. I am his bondage whore. He has made my body contort in positions I didn’t know were possible for me and taken me hard while I was tied. Sometimes he wants a brutally fast orgasm from a skull fucking. At other times he has me between his legs worshiping his phallus for most of a lazy Saturday afternoon. The Venn diagram of our kinks overlaps considerably, but there are also significant exclusions.

Because we have common friends, the ex-boyfriend and I run into each other socially. We haven’t fallen into bed. I have only been back to the old apartment once, to pick up my stuff. It’s over. I think of him less and less. But sometimes, when I am meandering through an art gallery, for example, I play the conversations we could have had in my mind. The abundance of memories I have makes me smile. He is happy. I am also, in my own way, content with the rhythms of my days and nights.

I hooked up with both of my regulars from before shortly after returning to the US. Though we do not play often, the most exciting sex I have had was a gang bang with five men organized by one of these fuck buddies. One by one, I sat on the men’s laps, naked. Wearing business suits, they kissed and touched me. The men toyed with my breasts and fingered my pussy. They affixed clothespins to my body. I brushed my ass over the erections that tented their trousers. We shared bottles of wine. Because I wanted to walk comfortably the next day, we decided that only three of them would fuck my ass. The men conducted a lottery for the privilege. I was doubled up, back and front. Once, briefly, I was tripled. My openings were made watertight. I held a penis in each hand and stroked the shafts. The men tied me to the sort of bench that is typically found in the locker room at a gym. The rope knotted my wrists beneath the plane of the thick wooden plank. It wrapped over my back to hold me in place. My tits were squashed flat. Knees on the floor, my legs were held apart by a spreader bar. My ass extended over the edge. They took my anus and pussy. My chest rode hard against the oak. Frequently, I fellated a man who straddled the bench and fed me his cock while another fucked me. The sex was continuous. It went on for two and a half hours. My friend had me first and last.

A few other encounters may be worth mentioning. I had bareback sex on a single occasion. At a bar, I picked up an eighteen year old, who looked like he was in his early twenties. I didn’t know he was a virgin until he confessed his virtue in my bedroom after we were already naked. Probably, I should have guessed his inexperience from the way he kissed. He departed my apartment having come in a woman. To start, I gave him a blowjob to take the edge off. He erupted almost at once, filling my mouth with the consummation of all of his adolescent daydreams and night tremors. Despite obvious inexpertness, I liked that I was his first taste of cunt. When we fucked, I squealed aloud in ecstasy before he expelled his seed. While I thought of introducing him to my toy box, I ultimately decided against it. I have long fantasized about training up the ideal dom starting from a tabula rasa. He isn’t the one. I haven’t seen him again.

At the other end of the age spectrum, I indulged my Electra complex over Thanksgiving. On Black Friday, I posted an ad on Craigslist and hooked up with a man in his mid-fifties. He is over twice my age and, in fact, said he had a son a year older than me. We met for coffee and then proceeded to a no tell motel at the outskirts of town. The clerk gave us a knowing look when he handed over the key. The man palmed my ass possessively. I never learned his name. I insisted that Daddy place his great, big cock in his little girl’s tight, wet cunt. Fucking and sustained cunnilingus drowned the bedsheets in my flood. I asked Daddy to sperm on me to close because I wanted to wear his semen. He straddled my chest and, punctuated by small licks over the glans, masturbated himself. He blasted over my tits to make them grow.

Lastly, I went to a conference in Pennsylvania at the beginning of October. I took a rental car and drove from Massachusetts. Around two thirty in the morning, I needed a pit stop, coffee, and a bite to eat. I stopped at a diner along the highway. A man seated alone invited me to join him at a small table. Rather than eating by myself, I accepted. He was a trucker and got to talking about life on the road. Intrigued, I asked for a tour of the truck. The living quarters of the eighteen wheeler were claustrophobic. A bunk bed occupied much of the space. Neatly stacked plastic storage containers lined the top bunk. The bed below was immaculately made. He didn’t wear a wedding band, I noticed. I took a chance and kissed him. His tongue dipped into my open mouth. He leaned his weight toward me; my back bowed backward. My fingers worked his belt buckle apart. I shed my jacket and divested myself of clothes. The cab was chilly. He turned the heat up for me. I sat on the edge of the mattress and sucked his penis to hardness. When I was satisfied with how it shined, I tossed the condom I unearthed from my purse at him. He nursed at my teats and lowered his weight atop my body. My arms wrapped his broad shoulders. I spread my legs in the air. The bedsprings gave a metallic creak. The floor seemed to shift slightly, but I may have imagined this. I sprawled in his arms after sex. We had breakfast in the same diner in the morning. I bought a fresh box of condoms from the convenience store at the gas station nearby, and we had a quickie for the road.

These episodes are exceptional. The majority of the sex during the past three months has been pedestrian. Craigslist is less effective than I remember. It has gotten me laid, yes, but the men I have met in Boston through the agency of the casual encounters board have exhibited little promise. Random hookups still happen, but the frequency has diminished since London. Ideally, I want more than another one night stand. The unrepeated fucks are temporary expedients and stopgap measures. Save for David, sex constitutes only a physical release. It lacks an intellectual or emotional connection. The dildo is sometimes more satisfying than a man. I haven’t been on the hunt as regularly as before. This is just as well. Research and grading papers have kept me busy this semester. Marking exams is a bitch. I expect to defend my thesis in May. The dissertation needs much work this spring.

I still play flute when I can with a chamber group. We don’t perform. We rehearse challenging music for fun. Nearly every morning, I spend an hour at the gym. On Friday nights, I go dancing — usually at gay clubs. Liz and Sophie, two close friends, like making out with girls. We have done a fair amount of kissing and fondling bodies through club wear. It hasn’t ended with tongue circling clit and my mouth imbibing cunt or thighs clamping a head in a viselike grip with fingers pulling the roots of hair and making indentations in the scalp as my pussy fountains against the touch of lips. We haven’t tribbed. Perhaps one day we shall.

I will most likely be in a new city next fall. Where? I don’t know. The job applications are out. I enjoy what I can of Boston while I am living here. I keep busy.

Over a month has elapsed since I enjoyed a new cock. This weekend, I had three.

~

Friday

I went clubbing with various friends from the orchestra. My halter dress dipped into cleavage and ended mid-thigh. I danced dirty with the guys, some of whom I knew and some of whom I met during the night in Soho. Around two, I left with a cute English boy, who invited me to watch him play cricket the next day. A tiny hovel of a basement apartment in Canary Wharf served as our destination. We had sex: half a blowjob, a bit of pussy eating, then his cock inside me. Inebriated as I was, I have little recollection of the particulars. I doubt that I came.

Spending a full day on a game whose logic I don’t comprehend while cheering for a guy I met while most of the way sloshed didn’t appeal to me. I tiptoed out of his room and, dressed wholly inappropriately for the bus and tube, made it back to my place early in the morning to sleep off the hangover in my own bed.

~

Saturday

Deciding to blow off work and other vexations this weekend, I replied to an m4w casual encounters ad from a dom looking for a sub. After a few e-mail exchanges plus the usual picture swap, we met at a wine bar in Covent Garden close to his hotel. As he didn’t look or act like a troll, I made a safety call and followed him to his room. Once he hung up the “Do Not Disturb” sign and closed the door, the first thing he had me do was strip naked. I placed my neatly folded clothes on top of the dresser. Then he had me crawl to the bathroom behind him.

The incipient erection made his trousers bulge. After I had unfastened the belt and loosened the top button, I tugged the zipper down with my teeth. The boxers and the pants descended to below his knees. He lifted up his polo shirt to show his penis, which sprung to wakefulness. I looked up at him, and without comment began to suck. I deepthroated easily. Though the girth of the erection didn’t increase, its rigidity and extension did. With fingers wrapping about the shaft at the bottom, the base of my hand pushed up against his groin and scrotum. The lips made a seal, and I bobbed over two-thirds of the penis. My head pitched to the right on the way down and straightened as I retreated. Tongue rasping along the underside of the cock, I filled my mouth up with spit.

His hand cupped the side of my head, above one ear. As I swallowed back the gag reflex and opened my throat to his knobby glans, the grip of fingers in my hair toughened. Saliva escaped my mouth and fell to the floor in a rope. He took his shirt off. The tiles of the bathroom floor bit my knees. This new lover groaned his satisfaction as I pushed one hand off each of his thighs and fucked my face over his penis.

“Look at me,” he directed.

The view from the floor was this.

From my vantage point below, his body was foreshortened. A wooly fleece covered his torso, the sparse white hairs contrasting with darker whorls, and thickened over his belly. He had a slight paunch. He looked down at me. Spectacles at the tip of his prominent nose distorted the features of his eyes. Both hands had an iron grip on the back of my head. They compelled me down to his root, then held me there. I struggled backward, spit the cock out, and took draughts of air.

He steadied my head, his perspiring palm against my left cheek, and slapped the right. He waved his cock at me, and I sucked him again. My jaws spread wide open while his pelvis did a twist. The cock rooted around halfway down my throat. My spit ran onto his balls. I made gulping sounds.

After this, he hauled me from the floor and propped me on the sink. Pausing for the condom on which I insisted, he entered my pussy. One foot dangling from his shoulder, he wrapped both of his arms around the thigh and used the leverage to pump himself into me hard. It felt good, but the orgasm came too swiftly.

What followed was tame. His idea of kinky was to blindfold me in bed. I did not orgasm there either. Neither did I spend the night.

~

Sunday

Since mid-May, I have been flirting with this buff, athletic guy who works at a café near campus. He gives me the occasional free drink and has lent me some of his music. Last week, when I mentioned that I was leaving London soon, he asked me on a date. We had uncommonly gorgeous weather and spent the afternoon at the Southbank. We found a tapas restaurant in Vauxhall for dinner. Rioja lubricated the conversation. It was light; it was convivial; my legs brushed his under the table. I thought his quick wit negated the myth about the Dutch humor gene, but it turns out that, while he did spend most of his life in Holland, he emigrated there from Suriname. By the end of the meal, the two of us sat on the same side of the small booth with his arm extending behind my back and shoulder. His head dipped to kiss me. I invited him back to the flat to mess around.

I had worn tight fitting denim shorts, a white tank top, and the usual sundries underneath. He had worn khaki trousers and a blue and white checked dress shirt whose cuffs he had rolled up to the elbows. Kind of Blue played on the stereo. A bottle of Lagavulin and two tumblers sat on the small coffee table. I hooked my leg about him and straddled his thighs. His hand caressed over my ass and stroked my leg from the shorts down to my knee. We kissed unceasingly.

He knew just how to do it. Our heads were in constant slow motion. Lips applied a perfectly judged amount of pressure. His tongue followed the line of my smile and, with its curling tip, teased out anticipation. My deep breaths took in but a little air. When I touched my tonguetip to his, we circled in a slow dance. A loud smack, and we moved apart a millimeter, then made contact again. He sucked on my pouty lower lip. Suddenly his tongue darted between the rows of my teeth. My forearms framed his head. Compressing the sides of his face, jaws nibbling, I sucked on his tongue and offered him more of my mouth to explore. As the kisses deepened, his fingers trailed along my spine.

With my eyes closed, I unbuttoned his shirt during the kisses that followed and sat on his lap frog like, thighs on the outside of his and flush with them, two hands at his waist, untucking the fabric from his pants. Then, fingers spanning the broad muscles of his chest, lips descended his throat. Down the line of the sternum they went, shifting laterally to his masculine tits. This excursion was fleeting. I could not long resist the allure of his eyes and mouth or the taste of whisky on his tongue. My lips fastened to his. His hand slid under the small of my back, snuck into my panties, and palmed my buttocks. The kisses continued unabated.

I crossed my arms and lifted the shirt from my shoulders. The bra was next. His hands touched softly over my bare breasts. I lowered my body onto him, and then I turned and sat on his lap. My back slanted against his solid chest. He kissed the hollow of my throat while his fingers traversed the expanse of my torso and reconnoitered my cambers and bends. The pads of his fingers skimmed the breasts where they rounded and slalomed through the valley between them. Their lightest touch sketched designs over the abdomen, where it indented. He skated along the depression of the navel, circling the border, hooked two fingers into the empty belt loops, and tugged my shorts up. When I sucked in a deep breath to collapse my stomach, his hand slipped under the waistband and wriggled between the denim and the satin panties. The other hand was a presence everywhere. He weighed the breasts. He tickled my flank, the side of his finger floating downward from the underarm to the waist and proceeding to the meeting of my thighs on the outside of the shorts. He fingered the slit through blue jeans. My cunt dripped.

My hands held the sofa back and the back of his head. I gyrated my ass over his pants, lap dancing to Miles Davis’s improvisations on trumpet. His hand stroked my neck as we kissed. My body undulated as I did my grind. His erection prodded me from behind like a tree branch.

He snapped open the buttons of my shorts one by one. His hand sunk into the gap and made an arch under the denim. He worked into the panties this time. The tip of a finger stroked the furrow. His tongue traced the shell of my ear. I spread my legs. My touch strayed to the midpoint of his trousers. While I clenched and unclenched my hand over his slacks, his fingers flicked over my labia as though leafing through paper. A lone finger reached inside me, extracted wetness, then pressed vertically over my lips, shushing my mouth. He silenced the unconscious moans this way. When I crossed my eyes to stare at his index finger, he crooked the digit past my lips. I tasted piquant and zesty.

I got off his lap and alerted him that he was overdressed. He did not take care of this problem at once. Instead he kissed me. He cupped my cheeks in his palms and pointed my face to his. The angle shifted constantly while we osculated. My nose hopped over his, and the kisses oscillated back the other way, slowly. His tonguetip sliced from side to side against mine, did a sudden twist below, then somersaulted back to the top, vaulting my tongue in the maneuver. I puckered my mouth and sucked.

I shoved his chest lightly to push him backward, stood, and squeezed my ass out of the shorts. Once I had kicked the panties from my feet, I bent at the knees, splayed my pussy lips open, and displayed my cunt. The clit stood at attention. My fingernails pinched the flesh and teased the hood down. I asked if he wanted to be inside me.

He regarded me rapt and groaned assent. Once he had wriggled free of his shirt, I snailed my tongue from the armpit to the nipple, then back up again, grinning as the low baritone moans informed me that this provided a direct linkup to his loins. Going to my knees, I undid the belt. He lifted his ass from the sofa and pulled his pants down. My fingers spidered down his abdomen. Taking the cock in hand, I placed a wet kiss over the glans. There was a slight tang of precome. I made a pathetic joke about the Netherlands. Deciding that the bed would be more comfortable than the sofa, we proceeded there. We sixty-nined. Because I wanted to fuck, I didn’t care to prolong this phase. But I was delighted to learn that his skills at kissing translated to amazingly proficient cunnilingus.

His cock pinned me to the bed as though I was an insect in a museum display. My legs started in the air, feet waving like tiny wings, but I lowered them around his buttocks and kicked my heels over his thighs. His arms on either side of me supported his weight. My arms wrapped his shoulders and compelled his body onto me. His mass flattened my chest. I barked each time that his cock bottomed out. This fuck sent me careening from one orgasm to another. On our second effort, I swayed on hands and knees while he pounded my pussy from behind. The pendant on my necklace swung pendulously and ricocheted from my chin. With his cock in me, I could not stop coming.

When we weren’t rutting, we were kissing, or I was slobbering over his penis to make it hard for my cunt. We punctuated the few hours of sleep with fucking. He said he had never been with anyone who orgasmed so much. I asked him to make me come some more.

I ran out of condoms. In the morning, we went out for breakfast, replenished my supply of prophylactics at Boots, and adjourned to the flat for one last round. He didn’t leave until noon, making me late for work. Though I am short on weeks in London, I want to hang out with Marshall again before I go.

A Brazilian boy: After an impromptu makeout session, I sucked him off on the roof of the youth hostel late at night. Because we didn’t have any condoms, that’s as far as it went.

The construction worker: He was an Irishman on holiday with his mates. I met him at a dance club, to which I had worn a cocktail dress that was barely decent. The top of my head didn’t reach his chin. His chest was pure muscle. Though his hands were calloused, his touch on my arms and my waist and my ass was gentle. He exhibited no such gentleness when he fucked me. He took me the way an alpha takes his bitch. He made me sweat. I enjoyed the challenge of trying to fit his cock into my throat but never quite managed the trick.

Boy on the beach: My bikini had blue and white stripes and a shining silver border. I had pulled it into the crease of my ass and lay on my stomach, tanning myself. When I rolled over, I discovered a boy staring at me from behind.

“J’ai été en admirant la vue,” he said.

I followed his eyes to the horizon, which consisted of high rise beachfront property, and grinned. He plopped himself down on the sand beside my beach towel. We communicated in my pidgin French and his equally limited English. As the conversation progressed he rested his hand on the inside part of my thigh. Since it was there already, I asked him to rub sunscreen into my skin. I doubted his complexion could tan, but he slathered some over his chest as well. I invited him back to my hotel in the late afternoon. Boldness must have its reward.

Le club échangiste: In Paris, I was a woman alone at a swingers’ club. I must have fucked six different guys during the three hours that I was there. I left in the company of a newlywed couple. They had an apartment in the 11th near Bastille. It was a studio, far tinier than my place in London. The sofa folded out to a bed. The two of them ate my pussy and ass simultaneously.

Sequential one night stands: First: the bartender in a hole in the wall pub who plied me with free cocktails throughout the night. We finished at his place. I went by bus across town to my hostel in the morning. My pussy was swollen from the 6 am fuck, the 8 am fuck, and the 9 am fuck. I had the ache of sex in my muscles. Face flushed red, I reeked of copulation. I wondered who around me knew. Second: the slightly overweight local who picked me up at the same bar the next evening. He sighed when my tongue swiped through his hairy chest and whimpered when I nosed into his hairy ass. When his cock was not in my pussy, his fingers took up residence there. I enjoyed open mouthed, wet kisses with this gray headed man more than twice my age. I liked licking the semen, sweat, and vaginal secretions from his tangled pubis. The penis returned to its maximum extension as he watched me do this. He couldn’t get enough of my tits.

My running partner is lesbian. Following a run, when we are both sweaty and in possession of an elated ache, I have often remarked that I want to gobble her up. After eight miles this weekend, at a café, Alice called me on my bluster. I had an appointment, so we couldn’t play then, but, after emphasizing that this would be a one night stand only, I agreed to meet her in the evening at her place.

She is femme. When I arrived, she wore a white tank top and a denim skirt each of which left precious little to the imagination. I had on a summer dress, but was wildly overdressed for the occasion. It was awkward to start. We had glasses of wine and made uncertain conversation. It took me an effort to stare at her eyes instead of her legs. That she kept them apart simplified the task in no way.

Outside, it began to rain. The typical British drizzle transformed into a sudden squall. We stood on the balcony and watched the sky spill.

Alice pushed off the railing and kicked her feet off the ground. Her calves and her thighs had been sculpted with an artist’s care. The skin was smooth and unblemished. The muscles stood out in relief. I noticed the florescent green of her underwear.

I went to my knees behind her. I caught her right ankle as she lowered her other foot. Slipping off the flip-flops, I licked along the Achilles tendon. I kissed to the back of her knee and set her foot down again. My hands smoothed over the backs of her legs. I reached up into her skirt and felt the soft flesh of her buttocks and the powerful muscles underneath. The thong, thankfully, left her cheeks exposed. Tiny goosebumps appeared like archipelagos on her thighs. I kneaded her. I needed her.

I stood and she turned and we kissed. Her tongue played softly against mine. Eyes closed, our noses bumped. She took her glasses off and set them on a small table.

Raindrops splashed off the railing and the balustrade. I felt them on my bare arms.

I turned and sunk to the ground so that I squatted against the wall, which supported my back. Alice clutched the railing and leaned her body over me. She flipped up the minuscule skirt, and I peeled the panties from her legs. She kept her pussy trimmed. I had seen it in the shower at the gym before. But I had never looked at it as closely as I did now. Her lips were small. The pudenda were twin hills that folded over the tiny labia between them. The clit hid at top. Alice was visibly moist. I smiled in the knowledge that I had made her so. I brought my nose to her pubis and inhaled the intoxicating aroma of a woman. She smelled of cut flowers. I hoped that I smelled so clean.

My hands went to the tops of her thighs and coaxed her legs apart while I rubbed my nose from side to side through her tuft of hair. Extending my tongue, I licked along the slit. She tasted a bit salty, a bit sweet, and so very savory.

I took time licking over the little hillocks of pubis. The tiny hairs rasped against my tongue. I breathed in deep draughts of her smells. My lips made a seal on either side of hers, and I sucked in air through my nose and exhaled through my mouth. I warbled my lips and flapped my tongue at the gate. The knocks announced my intent.

Fingers prised open her labia. The dark pink of the flesh shined with her arousal. I lapped at the inside of her folds, but didn’t stretch my tongue into the opening. I studiously avoided the clitoris.

My hands held her buttocks and tilted her groin toward me. Alice lowered her pelvis to my mouth. I responded with a tease, turning my head to the side, maneuvering away to lick at her thigh in place of the cunt. She nudged her pussy at my cheek, and when I didn’t react as she hoped, she pouted. I took my time anyway. My hands soothed up and down the fronts of her thighs. Her skin was so smooth.

I tongued the raindrops that beaded on the skin.

My arm stretched up. I squeezed her tits through the thin top. Then I lowered the arms and used my hand to rub the outside of her cunt. The surrounding flesh shook. The skin was darker than before. The odors were stronger. She was wetter. She tasted more robust — ferric, I would say.

I crooked two fingers up and pressed their backs against the folds of Alice’s cunt. Her moans were soft and high-pitched. She sounded like she was sniffling.

“Place me inside,” I said. I offered my hand.

She took my wrist and brought the fingers to her opening. Legs bowing at the knees, she lowered herself onto my hand. Once within, I straightened the fingers and scissored them apart. I rotated the base of the hand and felt the slickness of her muscles. Her pussy squelched around me. I rubbed my own cunt through the layers of cloth.

My fingers fucked in and out rapidly. The knuckles of the hand became drenched in the waters that escaped her pussy. In the intervals between vigorous, rapid thrusts, I lapped her clitoris.

I have little conception of how long this continued. I was content to lean my head against the wall and lick forever. The rain stopped, and still I mouthed the pussy. My effort ended in Alice’s orgasm. Her body went entirely stiff. Her thighs squeezed my face. She rutted against my chin and let out an expressive moan. The muscles in her thighs went rigid. The muscles in her vagina contracted about my fingers. The wetness sluiced in the narrow gap between them as the walls caved in.

She tasted exquisite. There was a lightness to her come, an aftertaste almost like fruit. I licked it from my fingers. She collapsed to the ground and tasted herself from my lips. After this, it was my turn to receive. Alice raised my dress. She was a cannibal on my cunt. Her eyes glinted as she ate. I wasn’t as quiet as she was. Legs spread apart on the floor of her balcony, I wailed and screamed.

I have been in Cardiff since Friday. Tuesday night isn’t the best for picking up a guy, but I managed to snag a Frenchman at the pub. Oral sex made up for the deficiencies in the fucking.

“I like how your beard is dripping with my juices,” I explained. The gray whiskers prickled against my sensitive bits while he feasted.

“Donnes moi ton sperme. Mettes dans la bouche d’une salope. Je veux ton orgasme,” I told him, hunched between his legs. I looked him in the eyes, rolled my tongue around the knob, and took the penis into my throat.

I play flute in an amateur orchestra. We perform in public ten times a year. We are not a large ensemble, nor musicians of stature or importance. Many of the people who come to hear us play are our friends. The concerts are followed by an after party, featuring drinking and merriment. These are often the prelude to sex. Musicians have a reputation for sleeping around. It can be a fun exercise to see who pairs with whom at the end of the night. When the head rush, elation, and kinetic energy of a performance fills up the arteries and veins, the tension often demands a sexual release.

Gi, who plays French horn, extricated me from a tedious conversation with a violist’s friends. The pub we had chosen for the night’s festivities opens to a street from which various side alleys deviate. I wanted air, and as it was a lovely night, we took our bottles outside. Gi needed to piss, so he found a shadowy place and irrigated a stone wall. When he finished, before he could cover up, I went to my knees and took his cock into my mouth. He protested, though his penis stiffened almost at once. The coating of urine over the eye added a tinge of sharpness to the taste of his perspiration.

Working the trousers open, I lowered Gi’s pants. He passively let me. But he was alert to our location. Fretfulness and worry weighted his carriage. His eyes had a nervous lateral movement. Anxious about our surroundings, he looked as though he would flee at any moment. My fingers reached up into his shirt and smoothed softly down to dissipate the tenseness in his muscles. Gi kept his pubis and balls shaved. I lapped the sensitive skin on either side of his cock.

With the cloth pooled around his ankles, I turned my hand about the shaft and bobbed over the front third of his penis. Elevating my tongue against the underside, I washed the glans with mouthfuls of saliva.

Gi exhaled an expressive sigh.

Briefly withdrawing the erection from my lips, I licked wet stripes parallel to the veins along the bottom surface of the shaft, lapped especially at the frenulum, and returned to sucking him. My cheeks bowed inward. My tongue circled the crown and tasted precome there. Lips exerting pressure all around, I rotated my face to a 4/4 beat.

No longer nonplussed, he reached a hand into my bra and cupped my tits. His fingers also played with my ponytail.

He liked it when I held the cock vertical and sucked the balls beneath. Because the contact of my tongue with the perineum elicited such powerful moans, I concentrated my attention there, sweeping the flat tongue from side to side over that responsive patch of skin. The front of the tongue lifting to make a cup, I applied the point to the crease between the groin and the leg.

Gi collected stray tendrils of hair behind my ears. When he lowered the cock and held it out to me, I rubbed my nose along the pubis, planted a kiss over the groin, and returned to sucking the shaft with a simple up and down motion. My arms wrapped his legs, and I raised my eyes to him. Spit leaked from the circumference of my lips. The cobble in the mews bit into my kneecaps, but I cared not at all. Hands twisting over the base of the cock and on his balls, I straightened my posture and continued.

As I sucked him, I mused about how much I loved this act. I procure pleasure from having a lover’s shaft resident inside my lips. It is intrinsically a submissive gesture for me to be on my knees this way. Head lowered, I do my obeisance.

I hummed to a distant unheard music. It was a fugue in D minor. I stepped through the variations, modulating the tempo, accelerating, decelerating, employing more tongue, employing less, tightening the seal of the lips, sucking louder, sucking softer, sucking harder, sucking wetter. My movements became slurred. My movements were discrete and precise. My fingers played counterpoint over his balls. I pushed two fingers up against the perineum and rocked my hand from the wrist to apply a generous vibrato there. Letting his earnest sighs give me accompaniment, I gently raked teeth over the helmet. I scratched the insides of his thighs and performed a glide, eliding the notes as I did.

The penis slipped out of my lips with a plop. I swirled my tongue around the crown and placed little kisses over the lobes before swallowing him again. While I could throat Gi’s cock easily, I didn’t, dedicating myself only to the front part of the shaft and to the engorged head.

He came without warning me. The precipitate lurch of the flesh meant that the penis escaped my mouth. A volley of semen landed on my cheek. Quickly, I snatched the stem and snapped up the glans to capture the remainder of his come. The shaft pumped and extruded the semen, which layered over my tongue as a warm, salty, and welcome presence. I spread my jaws to exhibit it to him. Closing up again, I tongued the knob and sucked on it hard to extract the last drops from the aperture. My head swayed fractionally from left to right.

I swallowed and stuck out my tongue to show him that the semen had vanished into my esophagus. He helped me to my feet and pulled up his trousers. I took a swig of the beer. Because I like the texture, I smeared the semen that had striped my face into the skin. We rejoined our friends inside.

I had Gi’s scent in my nose through the night. I washed it away only in the shower the next morning.

Friday, friends and I went barhopping in Covent Garden. I ended the night in the apartment of a mid-twenties South American guy who studies at the London School of Economics.

We didn’t make it to his bedroom before getting started. He reached into my short puffy skirt while we made out. His fingers stroked the lips of my cunt through the underwear. He was naked first, and he had me straddle his lap. It took him several tries to release the clasp on my bra, but once he did, he fed on my breasts. I rode his erection through sheer black bikini panties.

He was reluctant to wear a condom, but I insisted. We fucked in several positions. I laid on my back, knees in the air, shins horizontal. The impact of the thighs and cock transferred his momentum to me and made my body inch upward. The leather of the sofa stuck to my skin. Knees on either side of his hips, I leapfrogged on top of his erection. My fingers played at the clit with my muscles taut about the shaft within. I knelt clutching the high sofa back as he pummeled me from behind. First he held me by the thighs to open me up, then he held me by the breasts to bring me back. Both of us came this way.

Luis didn’t like to be sucked and wasn’t one for eating pussy either. In the bedroom, it was more of the same: competent fucking and nothing else.

— 2 —

After orchestra rehearsal, I went to a party that one of the violinists was having. I hit it off with a friend of the host and departed the festivities around midnight.

We took the bus back to my apartment and secreted ourselves in the bedroom. My roommate fucked her fiancé in the next room. We heard them. They heard us. The bed banged rhythmically against the wall.

Between our two rounds of fucking, I masturbated myself with an empty beer bottle. I wet the rim and pressed it against the lips of my pussy. The neck of the bottle dropped in almost at once. I held the thick cylinder below the neck and spun the bottle within myself. (I have often remarked what a pity it is that the human penis doesn’t rotate.)

Tony sunk to his knees on one side of the bed and watched me up close. His fingers touched over the clitoris and the lips where they flared around the glass.

Using both hands to clutch the bottom of the bottle, I wielded the vessel like a dildo and fucked myself with it hard. I harbor the private suspicion that beer bottles are designed with alternate usage in mind. They are resilient objects.

Wednesday evening: We proceeded to bed almost as soon as I arrived. After we had expended the initial impetus to screw, we prepared our dinner in the nude. I coated the vegetables in my not-so-secret pussy sauce. He spanked my breasts with a wooden spoon and probed the entrance of my cunt with its rounded edge. My asshole: this he stoppered with the cork from the chianti. Amadeo and I took turns on the table. We ate pasta from each other’s bodies and had a messy and splendid time of it. Amadeo took sadistic glee in poking me in sensitive places with the tines of his fork. He applied the serrated edge of the knife over my abdomen. He spilled hot sauce over my pubis. I layered the food over his groin and used fingers and teeth. I nibbled at his foreskin and sucked at the shaft. The wine stained his chest red. For dessert, I had semen in my gelato. He licked ice cream from my pelvis. He did it slowly. Fingertips sweeping over the G-spot, the tongue flicked carefully atop the clit. Tease and misdirection and a knowing touch conspired to leave me soaked, breathless, and precariously positioned on the precipice of orgasm, waiting for a push and the perpendicular descent.

Before coffee in the morning, Amadeo fucked me over the kitchen table. I laid on my back while he stood on his toes and thrust his penis into my cunt. He propped my left foot on his shoulder and licked the sole. His fingers combed through my hair. He gave me his thumb to suck, then smothered my mouth and nose with his palm. The resolute grip of his fingers constricted my throat. I anchored myself with a handhold on his hip while the spillage from my vagina smeared into the nest of his pubis and slicked between our thighs. Amadeo kicked off the wooden chair, and he fucked me harder. Rough paws mauled my tits. I raised an arm above my head and seized the side of the table. I liked having the solidity of oak beneath me, the way the wood vibrated under my weight when Amadeo rammed himself forward and bottomed out and reversed direction. My moans gave accompaniment to the liquid sounds of fuck. He hauled me from the table, up by the buttocks, when he came. The cock spasmed in the throes of his little death. I bore down with my muscles to wrench the semen out of him. Later, I lapped my secretions from the polished wood.

— 2 —

Friday night: I wore an emerald cocktail dress, with a deep V neck that showed cleavage and a halter tie that bared my back. The hem of the skirt landed conservatively two inches above the knee. The mostly rayon fabric hugged tightly to my curves and stretched about my legs when I stepped. It had a lustrous sheen. The occasion was a fundraising soirée for a charity for which a friend from the orchestra works. The conversation bent toward art and music. It was my kind of crowd.

A man in a purple shirt, a sport jacket, and dark blue slacks chatted me up. After the party, we unwound at a champagne bar. Hours after midnight, we checked into a hotel in central London where we had drunken sex. I cannot reconstruct the narrative with any clarity. Scattered images remain. I remember the checker patterned ceiling swimming into and out of focus behind him as he fucked me from above. I remember his head between my thighs and how I compressed the sides of his face in their vice. I remember tracing the tip of my tongue along the veins in his cock before looping a condom over the head. I remember dragging my nails down his arms as he slammed into me from a height. I remember sloppy kisses. I don’t recollect whether he made me come.

— 3 —

Saturday night & most of Sunday: Frank and I had dinner early in the evening at a Lebanese restaurant. From about 9 pm until 2 pm, we spent our waking and sleeping hours installed in my bed. When we commenced, I had an almost fresh box of condoms sitting on the nightstand. Now, the two last condoms in the whole apartment are buried at the bottom of my book bag. One day later, the scent of sex still saturates my pillows and sheets.

Frank took me in every pose. He had me on top. He had me underneath. He had me on my hands and knees. He took my ass from above with my legs suspended in the air. He took it hunched over me from behind. He had my buttocks with my back flush against his chest. When he needed a break to forestall an incipient climax, he paused the fucking to lap at my cunt. In my turn, I sucked him on my knees. I sucked him sitting cross legged on my bed. I sucked him with my head dangling from the side of the mattress. I sucked him pulling the cock backward between his legs after thoroughly devouring his winking anus. It didn’t signify in the least that he ran out of semen long before we had finished. The cock maintained its steel. The balls would shudder and the shaft would twitch. We kept going until it did, and then we repeated.

One of the qualities that makes Frank a gifted lover is his sense of the ebb and flow of sex, the innate knowledge of how to transition and when. He has me rutting on all fours, with his prick prodding my cunt from behind. His fingers stroke each of my flanks, brushing them from the hips to the rise of the breasts. When he penetrates and the cock fills me inside, the hands shift minutely. The heels of his palms press against the undersurface of the breasts. The pads of his thumb and index finger make tiny pincers. He squeezes the nipples and gently draws them out. The face of the thumb feathers over the sensitive nerve endings. The forefinger steadies this movement. The hands then cup the breasts and flatten them against muscle and bone, and he uses this improved leverage to slam my body backward against his groin. Then he raises me upright by wrapping his arms about my shoulders and lifting. At the same time, he sinks down on the mattress into a sitting position, and he lowers me over his penis so that I am squatting on my knees between his legs. After a time, he kisses my neck where it joins with the collar, and he presses his fingers between the shoulder blades to coax me prone on the bed. He extends my legs and blankets me with his body. The cock fucks without interruption. The tempo of sex hasn’t altered though we have cycled through a spectrum of positions. All of them feel different. All of them feel new. No matter how many times we have done this before, the sensation is unique to the moment.

It’s like music. There is a theme in the violins, and then the celli pick up the exact melody one register down, and they pass it on to the winds, who carry it. My lips are at the embouchure. My fingers are floating over the middle keys, and I am listening, and I am watching his baton and timing the entrance, and the harmony stretches itself into me deep down, and I experience it in a way I don’t know how to describe. There aren’t words for this. The music envelops me while I am shaping the notes. It creates me just as I create it. I am somewhere in its core. And I am not alone. I hardly know how I got to this place or where it is I am going next. I remember to breathe and keep on playing.